No, he said, looking at it longingly. He pointed out the window. Right on La Brea, he said.
I turned, as instructed. Rambled down, through green lights. After a few blocks, I made another turn, onto Willoughby, and drove past the Department of Water and Power building to the curb outside our house where I slid the car right into the driveway.
Nice, said Dad.
He glued his eyes on my hand as I put the car in park, then pulled up on the parking brake.
You’re nearly ready for the test, he said. One more round and I think you’re set.
We sat in the car, facing the low branches of the big ficus tree. He didn’t make a move to go and I didn’t either and for a while we just sat there, staring at the corroded handle on the garage door, with the useless string tied to it for no reason.
Two-toned leaves brushed against the windshield. I had a flash of remembering George outside, in his cap and gown. A vision, of an earlier time.
Your brother, he said.
I waited. He shook his head.
Thanks for the lesson, I offered.
His eyes swept around the car. Outside, the motion-sensor porch light clicked on as a neighbor trotted past with her dog.
You have things to offer, he said, gruffly.
Offer who?
Just to offer, he said. The world.
He didn’t move, and I felt it would be rude to move, so together we continued to stare stiffly out the windshield. A ficus twig tripped down the glass, onto the wipers.
Hey, I heard this story, I said.
He glanced over, eager. A story?
About a kid at school, I said. Want to hear?
Please, he said.
I leaned back, into the firmness of the car seat.
There’s this kid, I said. In my English class? Who was failing, last year. I guess he lives in a kind of run-down neighborhood, over by Dodger Stadium, and he didn’t know he needed glasses, and he saw everything blurry.
I bet he couldn’t read, Dad said. His hands calmed a little with the entrance of narrative, and he reached out the side again to re-adjust the right-side mirror. You can see this?
It’s fine, I said. Should I keep going?
Go, he said. Go on.
Anyway, I said, yes. He couldn’t read. That was the problem. The teachers brought him into testing, and he couldn’t read a word, and he never talked in English class, and he got bad grades for years, and he didn’t even understand how anyone could do this magical mysterious action called reading, and finally one of the teachers said they should test his eyes, and they took him to the eye doctor.
Dad shook his head. That’s the first thing they should check, he said. This crap school system, he said.
I pulled the keys from the ignition.
Well, I said. So they found out he had terrible vision, and he got glasses, and all the teachers stood around him while he tried them on.
Was he a smart kid? asked Dad.
Smart, I said. Definitely. And on went his glasses, perfect prescription, right? And he wore them and suddenly he could read, and not only that, the very act of reading suddenly seemed to him something possible, not like the rest of the world was way ahead of him in this impossible way.
A heartwarming story, Dad said, nodding. I like it. When’s our show on?
Ten minutes, I said. Anyway, it’s not over.
Why not? said Dad, his hand on the door handle. I like where it ended, he said. Let’s end it there.
The kid goes home, right? I said. With his glasses. And his new reading book. And his mom greets him at the door. She’s smiling, because the school called with the good news. But he can see she’s really tired. He hasn’t seen her in years, clearly: years! And she’s totally exhausted, there are these dark circles under her eyes and when she smiles it looks like one of her teeth is a little brown box. They can’t afford the dentist. Right? And his house? It’s a wreck. One side is falling down, and there are cockroaches running across the floor and there’s a big hole in the wall that he thought was a painting.
The motion-sensor light clicked off. Dad’s profile, washed in darkness.
You’re making this up, aren’t you, he said.
No, I said.
What’s the guy’s name?
John, I said.
John what?
John Barbaducci, I said, after a pause.
Dad coughed. Barbaducci, he said. That is the most made-up name I ever heard. Abe Lincoln, just why don’t you call the guy George Washington. So, he said. Fine. Keep going. The kid hates what he sees.
So he steps on his glasses, I said.
Jesus! Dad said, hitting the dashboard. I knew something like that was coming. Now I hate this story, he said. So then he falls behind, correct?
He doesn’t learn to read anymore, I said. But he gets by. He registers as half blind and gets disability.
Oh, now, that is an awful story, said Dad, shaking his head. Awful. He opened his car door.
I stepped out too. Locked the doors.
Nice work with the turn signal, said Dad. Just don’t forget those side mirrors.
I thought it was a good story, I said.
It’s a terrible story, he said, heading to the door. He gets disability and he’s not even disabled! That’s the kind of thing lawyers go nuts about. He thought the hole was a painting?
He fumbled in his pocket at the door.
Here, I said, handing over his ring of keys.
He coughed again, into his hand. I know it’s bullshit, he said, opening the door, stepping in. I know you’re trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it is. Okay? I don’t think like that. What are you trying to tell me?
Nothing, I said. It was just a guy at my school.
What’s his name again?
John, I said. I grimaced a little, against my will.
John what?
We faced each other, in the hallway. Dad folded his arms.
John Barbelucci, I said.
With a crow, he slapped the homemade pine key-table, fixed at the entryway, made in Mom’s first year of carpentry.
There! he said. He glared at me. You said Ducci, before. I’m sure of it.
Lucci, I said.
Ducci.
Do you have a tape recorder? I said.
I’m sure of it! he said. Close the door, he said.
I shut and locked the door behind us.
So can you read? he said, striding into the TV room. Is that what this is all about?
I kicked off my shoes, and Dad hung his jacket over the back of a chair.
I can read, I said.
It was eight o’clock, on the dot. Both of us zoomed to check the clock. I poured myself a glass of juice, and without a word, we took our spots on either side of the sofa and Dad clicked the TV to our favorite medical program and we rejoiced in the saving of the woman with the heart problem, whose eyes were so large and lovely.
